


The Beginning of the End

by Pompeiigraffiti, wollaston



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6566062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pompeiigraffiti/pseuds/Pompeiigraffiti, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wollaston/pseuds/wollaston
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An expansion of the prologue for Alone in a Crowded Room, as told by Peeta's brother Rye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning of the End

“Hey are those cakes for the Fisks cooled yet?” Peeta asked, tying on his apron as he crossed the kitchen

“Yeah,” I nodded toward the countertop behind me. The chocolate cakes were one of the most wastefully expensive things we could make; nothing but Michael Fisk taking an opportunity to swing his dick around just by showing what he could afford for his bitchy kids.

“Thanks for covering for me,” Peet lowered his voice, glancing toward the door to the storefront.

“You fuckin' owe me,” I muttered. I'd been covering for every track meet he'd been wasting his time on since the school year started. Mom wasn't happy about any of it, but he didn't need to be told that. Her displeasure was more than apparent in the bruises we both sported. Phyl was lucky he got out when he did.

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled under his breath, nudging me out of the way to open the cabinets under the worktable.

“Don't worry about it. I'm not trying to do my own job or anything.” I backed away from the table, a pie crust still in my hands, and kicked him in the thigh as he crouched to pull out one of the cake stands. “Isn't that, uh-”

“The shitty one,” he cut me off before he even stood up. “Yeah. I used it last week, though, it'll be fine. Trying to balance a big cake on that stupid little one is a nightmare.”

“Alright,” I said, raising an eyebrow as he screwed the base on a little tighter before setting it down on the counter. I turned my attention back to the pies, the last of the baking that needed to be finished before the rush rolled in. Peeta would be occupied with the cake for hours, and the sooner I got the damn things in the oven the sooner I could get to the prep and cleanup and be done for the night.

“Fuck,” Peeta muttered. I close the oven door and turned to see him crumpling the empty powdered cocoa package and tossing it onto the counter.

“Did you have enough?”

“Barely,” he tipped the bowl of frosting to look into it, pursing his lips to one side. “It's not exactly going to be the best frosting I've ever made.”

“Like they'll even fucking notice,” I chuckled. “I'm pretty sure no one outside this family knows what that's actually supposed to taste like.”

“True,” Peeta chuckled. We worked in silence for a few minutes, listening for customers to distract Mom enough to cover our conversation. Without them, she would just come down on both of us. As the evening rush picked up, so did our talking.

“I had been planning on visiting Delly tonight, y’know,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at him.

“Why the hell would you even try to make plans to sneak off knowing I’d be stuck with this cake all night,” Peeta asked. He didn’t even look up as he smoothed a layer of frosting over the cake.

“Because I enjoy getting laid,” I shot back. “And having a life outside of this bakery. You should look into it. I know you wanna nail that Everdeen chick; get on it already.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” he chuckled.

“I dunno, she spends an awful lot of time with Hawthorne,” I said, looking over my shoulder to watch his reaction. “Alone. In the woods. I know he’s got his child bride or whatever but it’d be the first time that stopped him.”

“Will you stop?” he gave me a look, turning away from the counter with a frosting-covered spatula in one hand and the pastry bag in the other.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, turning back to the sink and trying to hold back a grin. “I wouldn’t be interested in Hawthorne’s sloppy seconds, either.” Peeta sent an empty measuring cup sailing across the kitchen that hit the back of my head. I laughed, turning around to retaliate, on to end up turning face first into the rag he’d thrown after it.

“You’re an asshole,” he snapped, though I could hear the smirk in his voice. I threw the rag right back at him.

“ _Hey_ ,” Mom snapped, storming into the kitchen from the storefront. “Shouldn't you two be _working_?”

“Sorry,” the two of us muttered in unison.

“I don't want to hear another word out of either of you,” she snapped. “I want that cake done and I want to be able to check it before I go to bed. And get this fucking place _clean_. Stop wasting time.”

I sighed, sharing a look with Peeta as she whirled away to go back into the storefront. With the mood effectively murdered, we returned to working in silence. Mom stared me down as I brought the last of the baking to the cases out front. I did my best to avoid eye contact, returning to the kitchen to finish cleaning.

Peeta's sharp, hissing intake of breath was louder than the dull thud of the cake hitting the floor. As he turned away from the counter he swept the bowl of frosting to the floor along with it, upending the damn thing on top of the smashed mess of chocolate that covered just about every last fucking inch of space between the counter and the worktable. Peet still had the piping bag in his hand, the color rapidly draining from his face.

“Oh, fuck,” I muttered, staring down at the mess. Peeta's expression grew desperate and pleading and I had nothing to offer. That was the last of the cocoa, the next supply shipment from the Capitol wouldn't be in for two weeks, and the wedding was in less than twenty four hours. We could make another cake, but not what the Fisks had ordered. The bell in the storefront rang and my heart jumped into my throat as Mom stomped into the kitchen.

“What the hell is going on back he-” she stopped short, staring down at the floor. I watched her hands ball into fists at her sides, trembling against the fabric of her skirts.

“Mom,” Peet said, his voice tight and shaky. “Mom, please. I'm-”

“You're _what_ ,” she cut him off. I held my breath, moving around the opposite side of the worktable, looking between her and Peet and trying to predict her next move. I realized too late that I'd left the rolling pin sitting on the table. “Are you _sorry_? Is _that_ the bullshit that was about to come out of your mouth, boy?” Peeta caught my eye as she reached for the rolling pin.

We'd worked out a system. How to help each other. Without a word we could ask for help or keep each other from stepping in when she started in on us. More often than not it was better to just let her get it out of her system. A slap and a string of humiliating put downs wasn't that hard to get through, and it saved us both from an actual beating later on. That's not what she was gearing up for. Not by a long shot.

“Please,” Peeta shrank against the ovens, his voice barely audible.

“Do you know how much that just cost us?” Mom shrieked, advancing on him and shifting her grip on the rolling pin. “What a fuck-up like this does to our reputation? _Do you_?” I took a step closer as she slapped him. “What am I going to say to Michael Fisk when he shows up here tomorrow morning looking for that fucking cake? Do you think we can afford _refunding_ that kind of order? What about the fucking cancellations we're going to get when word gets out my god damn cake decorator is an _incompetent waste of space_?” I looked back toward the stairs, hoping Dad would hear her and wake up.

“Mom! Please!” Peeta's voice cracked and I turned around to see him curl in on himself, see the rolling pin come down on his head, and hear the sharp smack of his head hitting the floor.

“Mom! Stop! _STOP IT_!” I threw myself across the room, barely conscious of what was pouring out of my mouth, and hooked my arm around her waist. I snatched the rolling pin out of her hand and swung her behind me, letting her fall to the ground as I dove for Peeta. “Peet? _Peeta_!” His eyes were closed, blood pouring from the back of his skull. I took his head in my hands, turning his face towards me. He looked peaceful. He looked _dead_. I looked back towards Mom, my voice completely foreign to me when I spoke. “What the _fuck_ did you do?”

“I didn't—I don't-” she scrambled back against the cabinets, covering her mouth with her hand and staring down at Peeta. I got up and ran for the stairs, calling for Dad as I went. When I pushed open his bedroom door he was sitting up in bed and trying to shake himself out of sleep.

“What?” he asked, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

“Dad-” my voice caught in my throat. What the fuck was I supposed to say? He took one look at my blood-covered hands, the rolling pin still clutched in one of them, and was out of bed and past me before I could get a coherent thought together. I followed him down the stairs to the bakery kitchen, my heart pounding in my ears, and nearly crashed into him at the bottom of the steps.

“Go get Dr. Lawrence,” he said, his voice cold and low and even. I couldn't move. He turned and grabbed the rolling pin from my hands. “ _Now_.”

“Okay,” I nodded, squeezing past him and looking towards Mom. She had moved towards Peeta and sat cradling his head in her lap, tears streaming down her face and blood soaking the front of her dress. The sight of it made me want to vomit, and I had to push the impulse down as I ran for the doctor's office, silently pleading with whatever higher power there was to keep Peet from dying. Or bring him back to life. Not my brother. Not like this.

I threw myself against the door to Dr. Lawrence's office, jamming my shoulder against it before I remembered to turn the knob. It was locked. Of course it was, it was after sundown on a Friday, why the hell would he still have office hours? I ran to the back of the building and up the steps to the second floor entrance to the apartment he shared with his wife. They knew us. Too well. Late night house calls were too regular. I pounded my fist against the door, calling for him and craning to see past the curtains that hung across the window in the door. His wife moved them aside to peer out at me before opening it.

“Rye? What-” she cut herself off when she saw the blood on my hands, taking a breath before turning to call out over her shoulder, “ _Trent_!” She opened the door wider, stepping back to let me in. I couldn't move, and I didn't know what to say, so I just watched her open the closet door on the left and pull out the heavy black bag Dr. Lawrence used for house calls. He appeared a moment later, his shoulders sagging at the sight of me, and took the bag from her hands before following me down the stairs.

“What happened?” he asked, trailing a few steps behind me as we crossed the square. I wanted to run. I hated his pace. Too slow; always too slow.

“She hit him—I couldn't really see. His head I think,” I stammered, too shaky to get a coherent thought together. I kept hearing that smack over and over. “It was a rolling pin—he hit the floor. Fuck, there's so much blood.” He didn't respond, just followed me in silence.

I stopped short as we neared the bakery. Mom was walking away, her steps hurried and uneven, one hand clamped over her mouth. Of course she was running. Of course she was fucking leaving and not owning up to any of it. That cowardly piece of shit. Dr. Lawrence moved ahead of me, passing into the alley that led to the back door and leaving me staring after her. Headed for Phyl's. Of course. Running to her favorite. And he'd listen to whatever bullshit excuse she had for herself with nothing but pity.

“You fucking running from what you did, bitch?” I yelled after her. “You'd better fucking _hope_ he doesn't die!” My voice echoed through the square and I hoped it was heard. I hoped people looked out of their windows and saw her with blood on her clothes. She looked back at me for a moment, her step faltering before she broke into a run, rounding a corner and disappearing out of sight.

I sucked in a deep breath, glancing toward the shoe shop. Dewey pushed the front door open, standing in the doorway and giving me a concerned, questioning look. I just shook my head, let out a breath, and jogged around to the back of the bakery.

Dr. Lawrence and my father were crouched on the floor, lifting Peeta to sit. His eyes were open, his hands outstretched, and his fingers twitching and grasping at the air. I let out a shuddering breath, tears flooding my eyes before I could do anything to stop them. He was alive. Somehow. There was blood everywhere. He looked up at me and all I saw was confusion. The bell out front rang.

“Oh, fuck,” Dad looked up at me. “I forgot to lock the door. Go tell them we’re closed. Please. Lock up behind them, too, please.” I nodded, tearing my eyes away from Peeta to go out to the storefront.

“We’re closed,” I said, barely glancing at the woman who’d come in as I rounded the counter.

“You don’t close for another half hour.” The voice stopped me short. Mrs. Spencer. The last person anyone could want butting in when shit was going down. The entire town would know something had gone on by morning.

“Not tonight,” I said, continuing to the door and opening it. She looked me over, her posture straightening when she saw the blood on my skin.

“Okay, then,” she pursed her lips, glancing toward the door to the kitchen. I banged the door against the bell hanging from the ceiling to get her attention before opening it wider. Mrs. Spencer frowned at me before breezing past me, through the door and out onto the front steps. I just barely missed clipping her heels as I closed the door behind her.

I flicked the lock closed, staring after her as she crossed the square. She looked back a few times, and I looked down at the flecks of dried blood I’d left on the lock. It was still all over my hands. I rubbed them against the legs of my pants, smearing a dull red stain across them and barely managing to get any off of my skin. That sound of Peeta hitting the floor flashed through my head again, the image of Mom cowering against the cabinets, and this time I couldn’t hold back the urge to vomit. I rushed for the trash bin next to the register and retched into it, emptying my stomach and heaving until nothing came out but thick, yellow bile. I cried. I couldn’t stop it. I cried until I heard Peeta calling my name from the kitchen.

“ _Where is he_?” he said. As I stepped past the work table, I could see him trying to push Dad back and get up off of the floor. “What did she do to him?”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Dad said, taking hold of Peet’s shoulders and forcing him to make eye contact. “He’s fine.”

“Hey,” I said, stepping forward and crouching behind where Dad sat. Peeta looked at me over his shoulder, visibly relaxing and sagging forward. “I’m right here.”

“I was bad again, Rye,” he said, reaching for my hand. He sounded so small. His grip was shaky and weak, and I squeezed his fingers for a moment before he laid his head on Dad’s shoulder. “Tired.”

“Keep him like that, as long as you can,” Dr. Lawrence said softly. “I need to get that wound closed before he loses any more blood.”

“Okay,” Dad nodded, rubbing his hand across Peeta’s shoulders. The doctor moved closer, raising a strip of gauze to smooth over Peeta’s hair, matting it down. It was saturated in seconds. I watched as he rooted around in his bag, pulling out supplies and carefully cleaning the wound. When he began stitching it closed Peeta’s grip on my hand tightened for a moment before going completely slack. I had a moment of utter panic and grabbed his wrist, feeling for his pulse and finding only a faint response. He muttered something unintelligible and pulled his arm out of my grip. Once the stitches were finished, Dr. Lawrence pressed a fresh pad of gauze against the back of Peeta’s head, asking my father to hold it in place. As soon as Dad shifted Peeta pitched forward, vomiting all over his legs and the floor before letting out a weak cry and sagging backwards again.

“Rye,” Dr. Lawrence said, his voice unnervingly calm. “I need you to go back to my office and have my wife get the stretcher for you to bring back here. Okay?”

“Okay,” I nodded, staring down at Peeta as I got up off of the floor.

“The stretcher?” Dad asked.

“I’d feel a lot better keeping him overnight than leaving him here,” Dr. Lawrence said. I was out the back door before I could hear anything else. Down the stairs and around the side of the building I nearly ran headfirst into Darla. She stopped short and grabbed me by the arms.

“Rye, what the _fuck_ is going on?” she asked, out of breath and wide-eyed. She’d clearly run over here. “Why the hell did your mother turn up at my house hysterical and covered in blood?” I knew that was where Mom had been heading. Where the fuck else did she have to go?

“She nearly fucking killed him,” I said, ushering her past me. “Dad’s in there with Peet and Dr. Lawrence. I gotta go to his office; I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding and quickly continuing past me toward the back door.

“Hey, Darla?” I turned, biting back the tears and panic that had started rising again. She stopped to look at me. “It’s bad. Really bad.”

The stretcher was barely more than a piece of canvas on two long poles, the handles polished and smooth from years of use. I’d seen miners being carried to his office on it from time to time, but it was even less impressive up close. Buckles to hold the unlucky bastard who needed a ride in place. I never thought any of _us_ would be that bastard. I jogged back to the bakery with it balanced on my shoulder.

Peeta’s head was bandaged, the back of it already soaked through, and Darla carefully cradled his neck as Dad and I moved him onto the stretcher. Dr. Lawrence secured him and led the way to his office, Dad and I on either end of the stretcher and Darla trailing behind, closing up the bakery after us.

Mrs. Lawrence met us at the door, propping it open for us to enter and pointing down the hall. There was a light on in one of the exam rooms, someplace we’d seen the inside of far more often than most in the District. I barely recognized the place, though. The exam table had been replaced with a complicated looking bed, an array of machines I’d never seen before along one side of it. Once Peeta had been transferred to the bed I backed up against the wall, watching as Dr. Lawrence and his wife connected Peeta to them, conversing quietly with each other.

“Twain,” Dr. Lawrence glanced over his shoulder toward my father. “Do you remember Peeta’s blood type?”

“I, um-” Dad stammered a moment.

“We’re out of universal,” Mrs. Lawrence said to her husband, her voice hushed.

“It’s fine; just check his records,” Dr. Lawrence said. “We can spare the time.” Peeta’s eyes fluttered as the bed was raised beneath him, and Darla grabbed onto my arm. I hadn’t even realized she was standing beside me. I covered her hand with mine. After a few moments Dr. Lawrence turned away from the quietly beeping machines to address my father. “He needs a blood transfusion. He’s lost too much and his blood pressure is too low, but I don’t want you to panic. I’ve had head injuries come in from the mines before, and they can look much worse than they really are.”

“What do you need me to do?” Dad asked.

“Just stay here with him,” Dr. Lawrence said. He set his hand on the bedside machinery. “These will monitor his heart rate and blood pressure, and there’s morphling for the pain in his IV. We’ll get the transfusion underway, and then we just have to wait for him to fully wake up and see how he is. Once I know he’s stable and what you need to do for him you can take him home, but it may be a few days.”

“Okay,” Dad nodded, pressing his hand over his eyes and turning away from the bed; I could see him crying anyway. “Okay.” Darla wiped her own tears away and laid her head on my shoulder. Dr. Lawrence listed off things we needed to be conscious of. Drops in blood pressure or heart rate, more vomiting, seizures, too much bleeding. We watched in silence as Mrs. Lawrence returned with a bag of blood, hanging it from a pole on the opposite side of the bed. She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and hunched over Peeta’s hand, blocking what she was doing from our view.

“Twain?” Darla said softly. Dad looked over at us, pressing his knuckles against his mouth. “Is there anything you need me to do for you?”

“No,” he waved her off. “Thank you. Go home. Tell Phyl. That’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, turning to give me a kiss on the cheek and pull me into a tight, brief hug before crossing the room to do the same to Dad. Mrs. Lawrence turned away from the bed, stripping off her gloves as she walked Darla out. She returned a few moments later with a pair of chairs, offering one to me and one to my father. I set mine right where I was standing and watched as Dad sat down by the bedside, reaching out and setting his hand on Peeta’s arm.

The night dragged, punctuated by the beeping of the machines and Peeta’s shuffling in bed. He murmured gibberish more often than not, only to settle back down into a deep sleep. At one point he sat straight up, looking around the room in fear and confusion before trying to pull out the needles in the backs of his hands. He succeeded in ripping off part of the blood pressure monitor that wrapped around his wrist and connected to a clamp on his finger, throwing it to the floor before Dad was able to calm him down again. Somewhere between the third time he managed to ask Dad to take him home, and the fifth time he complained about how much the bed was making his neck hurt, I managed to doze off.

“Rye,” Dad’s voice pulled me out of a light, restless sleep. I had slouched down in my chair, and my spine popped audibly as I gripped the arms to push myself upright. “Sorry, bud. I need you to sit up with your brother for a bit. I have to go talk to the Fisks.”

“W’time is it?” I rubbed both of my hands over my face and back through my hair.

“Around eight,” he said, looking back toward Peeta. “He’s been in and out. You remember what Dr. Lawrence said to watch for?”

“Yeah,” I said, getting up to take the chair next to the bed that Dad had vacated. Peeta was curled up on his side, sound asleep, his hands tucked against his chest.

“I’ll try to make this quick,” Dad sighed.

“What are you going to say to them?” I asked. Dad shrugged and shook his head.

“I’m just hoping they don’t make my day any worse than it already is,” he muttered.

“You want me to go?”

“No,” he said firmly. I smirked, turning toward Peeta as Dad left the room. Bruises had settled in overnight, nearly covering half of his face and disappearing up into his hairline. The pillows were spotted with blood. Peeta shuddered, drawing in on himself and letting out a quiet whine. I pulled my chair closer and reached out to rub my hand over his shoulder, hoping to calm whatever nightmare he was having. With a choked off cry Peeta shoved my hand away, lurching out of sleep and trying to sit up.

“Hey,” I stood, setting my hands on his shoulders as he tried pushing me away. “Peeta, it’s just me. It’s me.”

“Rye?” he grabbed onto my wrists, looking up at me in confusion and allowing me to ease him back against the pillows. He winced when the back of his head made contact with the fabric and shifted to lay on his side. “Wh-where are we?”

“Dr. Lawrence’s office,” I said, lowering myself to sit back down. What I really wanted to do was climb into bed beside him the way I used to when we were little. When Mom got too rough or too mean and he couldn’t quite hide his crying.

“Where’s D-Dad? What about Mom? Did some--something happen? Are they okay?” he started to sit up again, fear edging into his voice.

“They’re fine,” I said, clearing my throat to hide the crack in my voice. Even after everything she’d done to him he was still worried about Mom. She’d be doing us all a favor to let something happen to her. I didn’t really know what to tell him, and I didn’t want to upset him. If he could find a little peace now I didn’t want to be the one to take it from him. “Dad will be back soon.”

“Okay,” he said, relaxing under my hand as I rubbed his arm. He laid his head back down and closed his eyes. “How c-come my, um--my head hurts so much?”

“You, uh-” I cut myself off, looking over toward the doorway. Dr. Lawrence was standing there watching the two of us. He nodded for me to continue. “You got hurt, Peet.” He opened his eyes to look at me, complete confusion in his face. “Your head--it’s pretty bad, man. I’m sorry.”

“Wh--” he pressed his hand to his forehead, carefully patting back over his hair until he reached the back of his head. He sucked in a breath through his teeth as he touched the wound for a moment before pulling his hand away. There was blood on his fingers, and he stared at it as if he didn’t know what it was. Tears gathered in his eyes. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” I said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it in mine. I looked to Dr. Lawrence for help. He stepped into the room, pausing to remove a blood pressure cuff from one of the drawers and continuing to the bedside. I realized the monitor around Peeta’s wrist had disappeared, along with one of the two IVs, at some point while I was asleep. The back of his hand was bandaged. He’d probably managed to succeed in pulling it out.

“Peeta,” Dr. Lawrence said, lifting Peeta’s arm to wrap the cuff around it. As he spoke, he checked Peeta’s blood pressure and pulse, distracting him with the soft, even sound of his voice. “Last night you sustained an injury to the back of your head. You lost a lot of blood, I had to stitch the wound closed, and you’ve been here in my office since. You might have to stay for another day or two, but I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“How?” Peeta asked, pressing his lips together for a minute and swallowing hard. “How did it, um. What happened?”

“Your mother hit you with a rolling pin,” Dr. Lawrence said, pausing and watching Peeta’s reaction as it sank in. His gaze got distant for a moment, his face going slack. “Just one more thing to check and I’ll let you relax, okay?”

“Okay,” Peeta said, blinking and glancing at me. Dr. Lawrence set his hand on Peeta’s chin, redirecting his line of sight. The doctor pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket, clicking it on and shining it in Peeta’s eyes. Before he could say a word Peeta shoved him aside, leaning over the edge of the bed to vomit onto the floor. He dropped back against the pillows, eyes closed, tearfully croaking an apology as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“I doubt you’re the first person to puke on him,” I said, earning a faint smile from Peeta as the doctor moved to wipe up the thin puddle of bile on the floor.

“He certainly isn’t. Try to keep him calm and awake for me until your father gets back,” Dr. Lawrence said. “If you need anything I’ll be in my office down the hall, okay?”

“Alright,” I nodded, watching him leave before turning my attention back to Peeta.

“Was, um--was that true?” he asked. He kept blinking too long and too hard, like he was having trouble focusing on me. “What he said.”

“About Mom?” I asked. He nodded. “Yeah. It’s true.” Peeta nodded again, laying his head down against the pillows. He stared at the wall behind me, his expression frighteningly blank.

“What did I do?” he asked quietly. Tears slid across his face onto the pillow. “Why, um-” He cut himself off and pressed his eyes closed, his lip quivering.

“Were you about to ask me why you deserved it?” I asked. Peeta’s face twisted into a hard frown and he nodded. I lowered my face close to his, setting my hand on his cheek to wipe away a tear with my thumb. “You didn’t. You never have. Do you understand me?”

“Then why?” he asked, his voice shaky and small. “Why?”

“Shh,” I leaned forward against the bed, looping my arm around his back and resting my forehead lightly against his temple. I was the one who left that rolling pin within reach. I knew better than to leave something like that just sitting around with the mood she’d been in. Even if she’d just caught us talking again she would’ve gone for it. That was my fault. That she had a weapon. It wouldn’t have been this bad if she hadn’t, and that was all on me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Peeta.”

“My head hurts,” he said quietly. “Where’s Mom?”

“I think she’s with Phyl,” I pulled back, rubbing my hand over his arm.

“She’s not coming?”

“Fuck no,” I frowned. Peeta glanced at me in confusion before laying his head back down to stare at the wall. I could see him turning the idea over in his head, his brow knit together as he tried to find a way to make sense of what I was saying. It was too much to process. After a few minutes his eyes drifted closed.

“I’m so tired, Rye,” he said.

“You just gotta stay awake until Dad gets back,” I said, glancing at the clock. He’d barely been gone more than half an hour. I couldn’t imagine what sort of shit he was getting into with the Fisks. “He should be here soon.”

“No, I gotta sleep,” he said, and I could tell by the tone of his voice he was drifting off. I tried unsuccessfully to wake him again before getting up to get the doctor. Dr. Lawrence checked his pulse, his blood pressure, and pried open his eyelids for a brief moment; Peeta pushed his hands away, curling in tighter on himself.

“He’s fine,” Dr. Lawrence said. “Just not quite ready to be awake yet, I suppose. Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t remember any of that.”

“Really?”

“Memory loss is very common,” the doctor sighed. “It’ll take him a long time to recall anything about the incident, if he ever does.” I stared down at Peeta, trying to figure out whether losing the entire event from his personal timeline was a kindness or not.

“Trent,” Mrs. Lawrence rapped her knuckle against the doorframe. “Twain’s back, did you still want..?”

“Yes, thank you, Nita,” he nodded, turning toward me. “Rye, I need you to come with me.”

“Alright,” I stood up from the chair to follow the doctor out of the room, glancing back toward Peeta as his wife took my seat. She flashed me a faint, sad smile as I turned down the hall. Dad was standing by the doorway to the doctor’s office, waiting for the two of us. “How’d it go?”

“They’re not happy,” Dad said, shaking his head. “I’m having a real hard time giving a shit, to be perfectly honest.”

“Fuck ‘em,” I said. Dad let out a humorless snort and shoved me into the office ahead of him. Dr. Lawrence sat behind his desk, gesturing for us to take the chairs in front of it.

“Rye, I know this is going to be difficult,” Dr. Lawrence shifted forward to rest his forearms against the edge of the desk, folding his hands in front of him. “I need you to do your best to describe exactly what happened for me. The more I know, the better I’ll be able to help your brother.”

I glanced over at Dad. He nodded, reaching out and giving my arm a squeeze that was likely meant to be reassuring, but fell pitifully short. I tried to describe what had happened, starting with the cake hitting the floor and her rushing into the kitchen. The rolling pin left on the table. The sight of Peeta backed up against the ovens, shaking in fear. Dad leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, shielding his face behind his hands but only just barely managing to hide his crying. Dr. Lawrence asked a lot of questions about the rest of it. About exactly how Peeta had been laying, and how much he’d been moved right afterward. If he’d woken up at all. Some of the questions fell to Dad to answer. Once he’d finished his questioning, Dr. Lawrence sat in silence for a few minutes.

“These are difficult injuries to treat here,” he finally said. “I don’t have access to the type of imaging capabilities that I would if we were in the Capitol. Because I can’t actually see what’s going on inside Peeta’s skull, I have to piece it together from what I can see here and from what you’ve told me. His brain is bleeding; that’s easy enough to tell. It’s called a subarachnoid hemorrhage. There’s likely some swelling going on as well, and these are what are causing his confusion and part of the pain.” He paused and gestured to me. “From the way you’ve described him hitting the floor, which is stone on that end of the kitchen, is that correct?”

“Um,” Dad took a breath and nodded. “In front of the ovens, yes. They’re built into the foundation; the wood flooring overlaps a few feet of concrete there.”

“He likely has two sources to that hemorrhage; one from the blow and one from the impact with the floor,” he said. Dad rolled his jaw, looking away from the doctor and nodding again. “There’s really no kind way to put this, Twain. Peeta could very likely end up with permanent brain damage, and there’s no way to really determine exactly what will come of this in the long run. We just have to wait and see.”

“What kind of brain damage?” Dad asked. I’d already heard enough. I pushed up from my chair and left the office, walking back towards Peeta’s room. As soon as I caught sight of him I felt a rush of queasiness and turned away to pace back toward the office, trying to wrap my head around ‘ _permanent brain damage_ ’.

I heard Phyl’s voice out in the waiting room, followed by Darla’s quiet answer. Anger rose in my chest, swelling up and overwhelming everything else I was feeling. _He_ never got this. He was her favorite. He was where she ran to when she knew she couldn’t fucking stick around and _he_ let her. I vaguely registered Dad calling my name as I stormed past the doctor’s office and down the hall.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snapped, stopping in the hall with every intention of blocking his path.

“What?” Phyl straightened up, casting a nervous glance at Darla. Their son wasn’t with them.

“She still at your place? Did you fucking leave your kid with her, you dumb sack of shit? What the hell is wrong with you?” I took a step forward and shoved at his chest.

“She left this morning,” Phyl snapped, pushing my hands away.

“The baby is with my parents,” Darla said, moving to Phyl’s side and setting her hand on his arm.

“Nice, you let her spend the night. How fucking sweet of you,” I spat sarcastically. “I swear, Phyl, if she went back to the fucking bakery I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” he cut me off. “Stand and watch? Where the fuck were you when this was going on?”

“Oh, fuck you,” I said. I could feel my voice rising and couldn’t do anything to stop it. “You have no fucking idea what goes on in that house or how much worse she’s gotten since you left. But I bet you made _damn_ sure she had a fucking shoulder to cry on like she’s always looking for after she beats on one of us. Did she tell you how horrible we are? How we drive her to it and she shouldn’t be held responsible for-”

“Shut your mouth,” Phyl pointed in my face. I wanted to break that fucking finger off. “You know I wasn’t exempt from her bullshit.”

“Yeah?” I slapped his hand down. “How many broken bones did _you_ end up with, Phyl?”

“I came here to see Peeta,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder to push me aside. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him against the wall. Before I could do anything more Dad’s arm looped around my waist and lifted me away from Phyl, depositing me a few feet away on my feet.

“Don’t,” Dad snapped, staring me down.

“Let’s get some air,” Darla said, looping her arm through mine and leading me out the door as I glared back at Phyl. If it were anyone else I’d have shrugged them off in an instant. I squinted in the morning sun as the door swung closed behind us, pinching the bridge of my nose and letting Darla lead our walk wherever the hell she wanted to. “How is he?”

“Awful,” I sighed, letting my shoulders sag. “He woke up a few times. I talked to him. He doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

“How about your dad?”

“He’s a wreck,” I shrugged. “He keeps crying. Peet almost died; how do you think he is?”

“Good point,” she said, steering us toward the bakery. “You need to shower and change. We’re going to get a change of clothes for your father, too. God knows there will be no getting him home until Peeta goes with you.”

“He went to talk to the Fisks this morning,” I said. Darla let out a quiet snort of disapproval. “Yeah, I think that’s about as good as it went.”

“Well,” Darla said, pausing when she reached the back steps to look me in the eye. “Fuck them."

“That’s what I said,” I smirked.

“Great minds,” Darla nudged me with her elbow before leading the way up the stairs and in through the back door. She called my mother’s name cautiously, but there was no answer. The place was empty. I stopped just inside the kitchen, staring at the mess on the floor. There was even more blood than I remembered. It had congealed overnight into a dull brown, streaked in parts, footprints of it crusted in a path leading to the back door. I could feel Darla watching me as I stepped forward, peering around the edge of the table to look at the cake smashed on the floor. “Go upstairs, honey. Get cleaned up; get some clothes for Twain. I’ll take care of this.”

“No,” I said, sighing and squaring my shoulders. “I’ll help.”

“Okay,” Darla said. She knew better than to argue with me. I pulled the trash bin out from under the worktable, and she went into the storage room to retrieve the cleaning supplies. I crouched to start cleaning up the cake on the floor, lifting the crusted, stale bits of cake and heaving them into the trash.

The look on Peeta’s face when it fell came back to me too clearly, and I thought about how I backed away when Mom moved in on him. How I could have stopped it.  How all I had to do was step in sooner. It would have brought her down on me but what did that matter? If it could have saved Peeta from this, what the hell did anything else matter? I didn’t even bother fighting it; I collapsed back to sit against the shelving behind me, pulling my knees to my chest and dropping my forehead against them as I sobbed. I curled my arms over my head, my frosting covered hands hovering somewhere over the back of my neck.

Darla moved the trash bin out of the way and knelt beside me. She pulled my hands toward her, wiping them clean with a towel. I watched her hands, barely able to focus on them through my tears, my breath coming in shuddering gasps. After a moment she tossed the towel aside and pulled me against her, tucking my head against her shoulder and laying her cheek on my hair as a fresh round of sobbing hit. Darla rubbed my back, shushing me and rocking me gently until I could breathe again.

“I could have stopped her,” I said.

“No, sweetie,” Darla said. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is,” I said, wondering how the hell she couldn’t see that. “I left the rolling pin out, and then I just _stood there_ , and I could have stopped her but I didn’t.”

“If this is because of what Phyl said, he’s an idiot and you should never listen to him,” she said, pulling back and taking my face in her hands. “Do you honestly think I _ever_ listen to that man?” I let out a brief chuckle and she wiped the tears from my face. “We wouldn’t be married if I took any of his bullshit seriously. And you’ve known him a lot longer than I have. Why are you?”

“He just said what I was thinking,” I sniffed, dropping my gaze to look down between us.

“Then you’re both morons,” she said, her voice impossibly kind. “Honestly, is there an entire brain between the three of you boys?”

“I hate you,” I chuckled, wiping a tear away before it had a chance to fall.

“Yeah, but now you’re laughing instead of being an irrational lunatic,” she said. I sighed and she took my face in her hands, lifting my head to look at her. “Now go take that shower and let me take care of this. Please.”

“Okay,” I said. Darla punctuated my sentence with a pat to my cheek and stood, holding her hands out to help me up. I pulled her into a tight hug, lifting her off of her feet for a moment. When I set her back down, I kissed her forehead before going upstairs. By the time I’d showered, changed, and gotten a change of clothes for both my father and Peeta, she had the entire kitchen spotless. There was no sign anything had even happened, let alone the gory mess we’d walked in to.

“You could have shaved,” she said, tapping the back of her hand under my chin.

“No,” I swatted her hand away. “I’m overwhelmed and stressed; I’d accidentally slit my throat.”

“I guess I’ll let it slide, then,” she said, lifting a brown paper bag up from the work table and nodding toward the back door.

“What’s in there?” I asked, following her and locking the door behind me.

“Food,” she said. “I raided the cases. It might be stale, but it’s better than nothing. Just in case anyone feels up to eating.”

“Where did Mom go?” I asked, glancing back at the bakery as we crossed the square.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Darla said. “Your brother told her she could spend the night but she wasn’t welcome any longer than that. She left without a word to either of us, and I’ll be perfectly content if that’s the last time I ever see the bitch. No offense.”

“Yeah, if I catch up with her in hell it’ll be too soon,” I muttered. “Phyl really said that to her?"

“He did,” she said, looking over at me. “And he was getting ready to chase her out of the house when we heard the front door slam behind her.” I nodded. That was more than I expected of him.

Peeta flitted in and out of consciousness for two days before Dr. Lawrence would let Dad bring him home. I spent them going back and forth from the bakery to the doctor’s and sleeping when I could, knowing Dad was going to collapse from exhaustion the minute he got home. He never left Peeta’s side. He sat in his chair next to the bed, sometimes holding Peeta’s hand, occasionally turning his face away to cry. I caught him dozing once, his head resting on his arms, folded against the edge of the mattress. There was no sign of Mom. At all. I couldn’t tell whether I was relieved by that or angry with her for refusing to show her face. Once we got him home, it was my turn to sit up and watch over Peeta.

Dad kept the bakery closed for a few days and spent most of them either sleeping, pacing, or hovering around our room. I couldn’t sleep. I sat on my bed with my back to the wall, watching Peet on the opposite side of the room. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning and whimpering any time his stitches were rubbed the wrong way. Even with a bandage over them he couldn’t so much as rest them against his pillow. He struggled to walk. I helped him up when he needed it. Helped him to the bathroom. Helped him bathe. Got his medications for him when Dad didn’t. Mostly painkillers that really didn’t seem to do anything for him. He could barely keep any food down and getting him to drink was even more of a struggle. It was four days before he even spoke.

“Rye,” his voice woke me. It was mid afternoon, and I’d somehow managed to doze off sitting against the wall, my feet hanging off the side of my bed. Peeta’s voice was rasping and quiet. “Rye.”

“Hey,” I pushed away from the wall, the relief at hearing him speak shaking off the fog of sleep in an instant. “Thought you’d given up on talking to me for good.” I moved to sit on the edge of his bed, smiling as he groped for my hand and squeezed it in his. The smile dropped off my face as soon as I heard what had driven him to wake me up.

Mom.

I could hear her voice downstairs, though she wasn’t speaking loud enough to be able to make out any of what she was saying. Dad was with her; his voice had that strained, angry tone reserved for the most severe of their arguments. When the only thing keeping him from bellowing at her in a rage was knowing we were home to overhear it. At least he was angry. At least he wasn’t folding and turning a blind eye the way he sometimes did.

“ _Do not go up those stairs_!” Dad shouted. Mom’s answer was quieter, less distinct. I got up and closed our door, hoping that would block out some of their fighting. Most of what we could hear was drifting up through the floorboards, though. When I turned back to Peeta he was sitting up, tears streaming down his face.

“Shit,” I muttered, moving back to sit down beside him again. “She’s not going to come up here, Peeta. Don’t worry. You’re safe, okay?”

“No,” he shook his head, pulling his hand out of my grip when I tried to hold it. “That's n-n-not—it's n-n-n-” he pressed his eyes closed, his lip trembling.  

“What?” I asked, shifting closer. He shook his head.

“M-m-my—f-fault,” he squeezed out before covering his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking as he cried. Mom’s shrill voice cut through their argument, though I still couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“That?” I asked. He nodded. “No. Oh, fuck no, Peet. That’s not your fault. None of it is. That’s _her_. It’s always been her.”

“N-n-n-no,” Peeta whimpered, drawing his knees up to his chest and curling in on himself. “N-n-nooo.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, shifting onto the bed so I could wrap my arms around him. He tried to push me away at first, only giving in once he realized I wasn’t giving up. He sagged against me, grabbing onto the front of my shirt and balling his hand into a fist. His entire body shook as he sobbed.

“I—I was b-b-b—I w-was b-b-bad,” he cried, burying his face against my shoulder. I glanced back toward the closed door, hugging my arms around him and covering the ear that wasn’t pressed against my chest. I cried along with him, wishing they’d just get it over with. Wishing it was done. And hoping that when it was over, Mom would be gone for good.

After a few minutes the fight died down, though it took longer for Peeta to calm himself down. He shuddered as I rubbed his back, letting out quiet, choking sobs. He whimpered, pressing his hands against his temples, a sign I’d come to understand meant he was having a migraine. I settled him back against the pillows, promising I’d be right back with his medicine. When I opened the bedroom door I saw Dad in his own room across the hall, a suitcase open on the bed.

“Dad?” I asked, stepping into the room. He scooped a fistfull of clothing out of Mom’s dresser and dumped it unceremoniously into the suitcase.

“Yeah?” he asked, glancing at me before opening another drawer and doing the same.

“What the fuck was that?” I asked. He heaved a sigh and paused after pulling open a third drawer, looking over at me before staring down into it.

“Your mother’s moving in with her cousin,” he said. “If you want to say goodbye, now’s your chance. She’s on the back porch. She will not be coming back into this house.” I nodded, watching him as he filled the rest of the suitcase, tossing a few things from the top of the dresser into it before snapping it closed. He stared down at his hands where they rested on top of it, then opened the case back up, working his wedding ring off  of his finger and tossing it inside before closing it again.

“Tell her I said to go fuck herself,” I said before turning away and heading for the kitchen. I pulled a glass down from one of the cabinets, filling it with water before shaking out the combination of pills Peeta needed. I listened to Dad pass through the hall behind me and down the stairs before returning to our bedroom.

Over the next few days Dad packed up every last thing she had in the bedroom they shared, leaving them in boxes on the back porch that disappeared within a day or so. The door to her office at the top of the stairs remained closed. Peeta refused to get out of bed. The only coherent sentences he could put together were about her. Asking where she’d gone. When she’d be back. The answers just made him cry and shut down on us again.

Almost a week passed before Dad finally decided it was time to open the bakery again and time to send me back to school. I had no desire to, and I really didn’t see how the fuck he expected to run the place by himself all day as well as take care of Peeta. Phyl turned up to get things going again, but the kitchen was tense and quiet as we worked on preparing things for the next day, and eventually I was left to wrap it up on my own. Phyl had managed to take a few weeks off from his job at the Justice Hall, and he and Dad hammered out a schedule before Phyl went home and Dad retreated upstairs to take care of Peeta before collapsing into bed. I cleaned out the storefront, washing and replacing all the trays and linings and double checking every detail I could think of, trying to be sure Dad had as little to do when he got up as possible.

“Rye?” Delly stood in the doorway to the mudroom, wringing her hands nervously. I hadn’t even heard the back door open.

“Dell,” I sighed, suddenly realizing it had been almost a week since I last saw her. I flashed a faint smile and she rushed across the room and threw her arms around my neck. I wrapped my arms around her waist and buried my face in her hair. “Hey.”

“Dad told me,” she said softly, starting to pull back. I tightened my arms around her, and she pressed a kiss to my neck before leaning against me again. “As much as he could, anyway. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said softly. After a moment I pulled back, quickly brushing my fingers under my eyes so she wouldn’t see that I’d started to cry. It didn’t work. Dell set her hand on my cheek, turning my face gently toward her.  I let out an embarrassed chuckle as she wiped a tear away with her thumb. “He’s alive. The doctor said he could’ve died.”

“How is he?” she asked. I shrugged and shook my head, trying to figure out exactly what to say. I didn’t really know how I was, either. I dropped my arms from around her waist and scratched my hand through my hair.

“He sleeps a lot. All the time,” I said, glancing toward the stairs. He should have still been with me. Evenings we worked together, taking our time finishing up after Mom went to bed and shaking off the bitterness she left hanging in the air. It was lonely working by myself. “When he’s awake he’s confused. Can’t really talk. He asks for Mom a lot and I fucking hate it. It’s like he doesn’t know what happened, let alone that she did it. I don’t get it.”

“Can I see him?” Delly asked softly, fiddling with the belt at the waist of her dress.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her voice was shaky, and I could see tears welling in her eyes when she looked toward the staircase. Delly loved Peeta, too. They were inseparable for years. She wouldn’t handle seeing him now very well, and her tears would only upset and confuse him even more. And I couldn’t handle any more crying. I’d seen and done more in the past week than I had in my entire life. I wrapped Dell up in my arms before she could start, burrowing my face against her neck and pressing my lips to her skin. I needed an escape, a way to get my mind off of everything that had happened, and Delly was the best way I knew how. I shifted my kisses to along her jaw to her lips, pressing her back against the table as she opened her mouth to me, arching her back as I worked my hands beneath her dress.

“Rye,” she gasped after a while, pushing my hands away and rearranging her skirt. “I have to get home.”

“You should stay,” I said, nuzzling against her hair and smoothing my hands around her waist as she buttoned the top of her dress.

“You know I can’t,” she said. “But I’d like to.”

“I’d like you to,” I said, pulling her against me again and letting myself imagine how good it would be to spend the night curled up around her. She took my face in her hands and kissed me.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I nodded, dropping my hands a bit and working her skirt up her legs. “I’d be _more_ okay if you’d stay and sleep with me.”

“You’re _fine_ ,” she laughed, swatting my hands away and stepping out of reach. I chuckled, following her to the back door.

“I’ll be at school tomorrow,” I said. “Bakery’s opening again. Trying to get back to normal.”

“I’m guessing Peeta won’t be?” she asked, pausing with her hand on the doorknob.

“No,” I shook my head, chewing the inside of my lip. “Not sure about that one.” Delly pressed a kiss to my cheek and let herself out. I locked the door behind her, moving to the doorway to the storefront to watch her cross the square. Once she was home, I double checked the ovens and went upstairs.

Peeta lay facing the wall. I sat on the edge of my bed, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. A stripe of moonlight that leaked in around the edge of the shade fell across the back of his head, highlighting the thick, jagged scab that had started forming over his stitches once Dr. Lawrence took his last bandage off. It occurred to me it wasn’t just _when_ Peeta would be back to normal that I didn’t know, it was _if_.  I had a sinking feeling that, no matter what, life would never really be normal for any of us again.

 


End file.
